


Child of the Sun

by FluffyPaws



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alinor, Cyrodiil, Multi, Queer Characters, Summerset Isles, auridon, autistic hero, being a peasant in 4th era auridon is kind of hard, skyrim prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-06-05 11:07:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6702253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FluffyPaws/pseuds/FluffyPaws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over a hundred years have passed since the Altmer of Alinor drove the wicked Empire of Man from their shores. A young mer of Vulkhel Guard navigates his place on Nirn and the will of the Aedra, as well as his duties handed down to him by the Thalmor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 4E 156

“Before anything existed, Anu was everything.

“And Anu made Anui-El, that he might know himself.

“And when Anui-El asked for order and understanding, Anu created Auri-El, who was both the soul of Anui-El and Time.

“Auri-El and many gods created the world to fill the emptiness of Anui-El. Those who made Nirn and Mer were the Aedra, the first ancestors. Auri-El and the other Aedra lived among their children, and though the creation of Nirn had left them all weakened, they were happy and contented.

“But Lorkhan did not give up anything to make Nirn. He and his children, Men, attacked the helpless Mer, that they might claim Nirn for themselves. Auri-El begged Anui-El for help, and Anui-El responded by granting him a mighty Bow and Shield.

“Auri-El and the other Aedra defeated Lorkhan. Lorkhan was imprisoned for his wickedness and cruelty. Now he only rules the underworld. Men gave up on their war for a long time. Men and Mer scattered and became all the people of Nirn we know today.

“When it was safe, the Aedra left Nirn to go back to Aetherius. Auri-El made sure to show Mer the way, so we could follow.”

Kynril knew all that already. Father had told him the story before. The story of the ancestors and the scary Men. But it had a new meaning now.

Somebody was missing. Somebody who used to tell him the next story. The story about how Auri-El's Light came to Nirn through the sun.

The little house by the shore was so quiet without her. It was always a small home, but now the emptiness closed in on him, even as he sat on the bare floor by the fireplace, with Father near.

“That's where Mama went,” Kynril said.

A large hand gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder.

“Yes, Kyn. Mer live for a very long time. But when we die, we ascend. The Stars guide our souls to Aetherius. And that is where your mother is now, watching over you.”

Kynril wanted to say something, but it was so hard to talk when crying. And Mer weren't supposed to cry for the dead. The Priest of Auri-El said so. Kynril squashed his palms against his running eyes.

Father wrapped his arms around him.

“It's okay,” Father said. “She wouldn't want you to be sad, but she would understand. So you can cry.”

“Will we go to Aetherius too?” Kynril asked.

“I hope so! But I hope that day does not come for a very long time. There is so much to see in Nirn, thanks to the Aedra. Tamriel is a beautiful place.”

“Did Mama see it?”

“Yes. She... saw a lot of it.”

Kynril looked up at Father. He was crying too, but trying to smile....

Another question came to him.

“Does _everyone_ go to Aetherius?”

Father wiped his own eyes. “They do if the Daedra do not steal them. But you are a good child, and the Thalmor keep the meanest Daedra away.”

“But... what about Men?”

“Hmmmm. Well.... Men are not evil. They are... misguided. Silly. Some of them even think it would be better to go to Lorkhan's underworld.”

Just the idea of it was... impossible! Why would anyone _want_ to go there?!

But Father just laughed at the look on his face. “I know, Kyn. But the Aedra are kind, and Auri-El does not hate Men for their mistakes. Men go to Aetherius too, if Lorkhan and the Daedra don't get their souls.”

But weren't Men wicked, just like Lorkhan? The priests said one thing. Father said another.

The priests also said Mother didn't understand Magnus.

“Tell me about the sun. Please.”

“Of course, Kyn.”


	2. 4E 161

At ten, Kynril was fairly small for his age.

But there was work to be done. Mara was kind and loving and Stendarr was merciful, but all good Mer had to earn their place on Nirn. Even if it was a meager place.

They'd never left that little house by the shore. There were taxes to pay to the canonreeve's office, tithes to give to the Temple of Auri-El, and he didn't know what had earned the ire of the magistrates, but Father owed them coin too.

Then there was food to worry about. Seagulls tasted terrible and trying to spear mudcrab or catch fish wasn't worth the cost of license. And even Stendarr wouldn't be able to help them before the magistrates if they dared to poach one of the High Kinlord Silabaene's _deer._

Sometimes they had a little extra food, nicer fare from the heart of Vulkhel Guard, courtesy of an old friend named Corvus. Kynril never saw this mer, but he could tell he was generous. But Corvus couldn't always help them.

So Kynril hauled cargo, like his father, like many other Altmer who lived in the seaside outskirts of Vulkhel Guard. He was just big enough for it to be considered safe. But his father watched him with an eagle eye and he often needed _extra_ help. Not just another mer, as was normal. Sometimes two. And if two, there would be Oblivion to pay for time the second lost making sure he didn't get crushed. But it was coin _he_ earned, and Dagon take him if he let them deny him the chance to work.

Stars above, Kynril thought as the sun beat down on the docks. What did the nobility do?

And Father bitterly told him that the place of the nobility was to lead and govern and be true examples of Mer. Their very existence was a service to their vassals, to their kinsmer, to the gods. That was how they earned the right to eat. But that bitterness was a well-kept secret.

“We do have family in the nobility,” Father explained. “You've a cousin, a young lord. He and his kin do not live on Auridon.”

“Couldn't they help us?”

“It is not our place to ask for their attention. They are far closer to the Aedra. And besides, if every kinhouse took pity on their lesser branches, then all of Alinor would be consumed by squabbling would-be kinlords.”

“I thought it was?” Kynril muttered.

“I see you've been listening to the gossip. But watch your tongue, child, or a seagull will tear it out.”

Kynril winced at his father's harshness. But what made his stomach drop was the thought of word getting to the Thalmor, and he said no more.

He quietly amused himself with the idea of his mysterious cousin sharing his work. Some mer, probably with bright yellow eyes and lighter skin like Father, with long and well-kept gold hair, and fine robes of dyed silks... having to lift giant crates and carry them off a ship.

No, Lorkhan would walk Tamriel again before _that_ happened.

A cry went up from somewhere below.

“S'rendarr's folly! A stowaway!”

The ship rocked with the surge of magicka inside, and Kynril was thankful that he was not holding anything heavy.

A tall figure – an Altmer – in ragged clothes sprinted out onto the deck, blood running from gouges in their arms. And, his heart hammered, the mer was about to cast another spell–

No, no. It was okay. Everything was just a misunderstanding. The Altmer didn't _want_ to cause trouble, and they were sorry, but they had to go. They were in such a hurry! They ran to the dock and to the shore....

No, no no, what were the guards doing? The Altmer was no villain, they only–

The stowaway crumpled to the sand. Kynril watched, with alarmed clarity, as the guard seized the struggling mer and dragged them to the city.

The crier brought news later that week. News of a traitor from Rosefield, who had committed crimes against the Aldmeri Dominion in Pelletine and barely escaped, only to be found on a vessel from Senchal. That mer had been consigned to Oblivion.


	3. 4E 167

The knock on their door was far too formal and demanding for comfort.

Father set his plate of boiled mudcrab down on the table and rose to answer, while Kynril looked up with anticipation. There, illuminated by the fire and the light of the moons, stood a fairly imposing mer in gold-trimmed, void cloth robes.

Auri-El preserve them. How had they attracted the attention of the _Thalmor_?

“Fivefold venerations,” Father whispered. “What brings you to our humble–”

“Spare the flattery, Kyndoril. My business is with your son.”

Kynril felt his guts hasten with his meal. Oh, Stars, how did one speak to the Thalmor again? Well... he supposed he should stand up, to start.

The visitor was old enough to have a beard – one kept short and neat on his chin, silver like the closely-shaved hair on his head. His green eyes nailed him where he stood.

“Kynril of Vulkhel Guard. Stand at attention.”

He wasn't sure how that was supposed to look. But he straightened up.

“You are nearing maturity, and your potential is limited on the docks. As an officer of the Thalmor and Aldmeri Dominion, I am obligated to inform you that you are to report to the First Auridon Marines in Skywatch in eight weeks' time. You will arrive within the first week of Morning Star. Understood?”

“Yes, my lord.”

That was the thing to say, yes. But what on Nirn just happened?

Father looked anxious – more than he'd been in years. Kynril watched, silently pleading that he would find some way out of _this_.

“My lord, if... if you will indulge a father's worry....”

“Trinimac knows all families dread this day,” said the officer. “But this desire to see one's kin remain safe is what inspires the strong to wield a blade.”

“And we are proud to serve Alinor. But this day seems.... Well.... He is barely sixteen....”

The officer raised an eyebrow. “And he will be prepared to serve when he is of age. If you have further objections, the Thalmor commander in Vulkhel Guard would love to hear them.”

Father paled, then touched a hand to his breast and bowed his head. “Forgive me.”

The officer ignored him and turned back to Kynril. “Eight weeks. Morning Star. Skywatch. I suggest you make the most of your remaining time.”


	4. 4E 171

It happened so quickly. News delivered from the south, with a message from the commander that he was to be granted a full week of leave. Kynril read the letter once, twice, three times in his bunk, hands shaking, eyes dripping.

“Kynril, what in Oblivion?”

And, no, no, it was shameful to display his grief for the whole barracks to see.

He fled.

Kyndoril of Vulkhel Guard was gone. Work had taken him to the Cape of the Blue Divide, where he'd been lost to the waves. There was no trace of him left, not his magicka, not his body.

The skies should not have been so clear that morning. But the winds that cooled Skywatch every Frostfall also swept the clouds away. Kynril hid himself in the temple, where it was more appropriate for a mer to grieve, if only for a little while.

–

“And Auri-El showed Mer the way to Aetherius, that we might follow and escape this wretched plane.”

“Yes, I know,” Kynril sighed.

The priest did not seem pleased by his outburst. Was the look on his face anger? Or was it only pity? Best not to risk it.

“Your Grace,” Kynril muttered, sinking lower against the wooden bench. “Forgive me. Father used to tell the same tale when I was small. He wanted me to hear it again when Mother passed.”

“Ah. I understand. It is a rare thing, for an Altmer to have lost both parents at such a young age. But it is not unheard of. You know, surely, of the Great Anguish.”

“My parents weren't taken by _daedra_ ,” Kynril said. “Or humans. They–”

“Know that the ancestors are compassionate in this difficult time. They know your suffering. Many have felt such pain in their own lives.”

There was no interrupting a Priest of Auri-El, Kynril thought to himself.

“Remember this grief, child,” the priest went on. “As a soldier of Alinor, you are called upon to defend other mer from an early departure to Aetherius, and spare your weaker kin the loss of their own loved ones. Just as Auri-El and Trinimac defended us all from Lorkhan and Man, you must be the shield against the forces of Oblivion and the Empire.”

“I will not forsake my duty.”

“Is there anything more you need? Perhaps you would like to make an offering to your own ancestors?”

Kynril thought for a moment. “I've no idea where my mother came from. And my father....” He paused. He had a lord for a cousin, but did not even know his own kinhouse. “I know nothing of his family, either.”

“They watch over you nonetheless, and will answer if you approach with humility.”

–

There was, of course, a large brazier outside, behind the temple. Various Auridon flowers and some coins had been laid at its base.

“I don't know who may be listening,” Kynril whispered, lighting his own gift of lavender. “But.... Please. I've no one left.”

There was a moment's pause. And then the image of a woman appeared over the flames. One with... a tail?

Either he had made a terrible mistake, or the ancestors had a strange sense of humor.

The Khajiit laughed. “What? You were expecting some High Elf, yes?”

“I'm.... Well....” Oh, gods above, how did one suggest that perhaps a prayer had gone wrong? Without insulting the spirit? “I admit, I am confused.”

“Ah, don't flatter yourself. Rei'dar was the wife of Kyndoril's mother, Kinlady Estivel of Luxurene. But this one had cubs with another Khajiit. And after this one's passing, Estivel had her cubs with an Altmer, as was... required of her. This one considers Estivel's descendents her family, too. So, she is here.”

A Kinlady? Marrying a _Khajiit_?

No, no, it would not do to question an ancestor, let alone one looking on from Aetherius.

“You knew my grandmother? Then... but if _she_ was a Kinlady, then my father...?”

“Ah, it is a tragic tale. But do not long for the life you did not have, cub. Such a gentle soul is not suited for it. Rei'dar will watch over you, perhaps tell you more later?”

“I'm... honored to have you as my grandmother.” Was that true, his conscience asked, or did he only wish to appease the spirit? He did feel relief to know of her.... “How did you come to know Estivel?”

Rei'dar's ghostly tail swished. “It is an exciting tale, of Coldharbour, of the founding of the Dominion, of war with the corrupt Empire and the foolish forces of the Covenant and Pact!”

 _That_ war? Kynril's mind tried to grasp Time. If Rei'dar really did refer to _that_ war... that victory of Aldmeri forces over humans and fallen mer, that first Aldmeri conquest of human Cyrodiil.... That had been nearly a thousand years ago. Gods, how old _were_ they?

“Oh, but you asked of _Estivel_ ,” Rei'dar laughed. “Well, this one was a thief, she was a young sorceress from a noble family.... We met while fighting to escape Molag Bal's grasp, and together, we were the image of a trashy romance story.”

“And... what news of Estivel? Is she also...?”

“She lives! Ah, but no, it is best you do not seek her now. She is not the Kinlady of Luxurene anymore. Her life is full of danger, and there is nothing she can offer you now. And, before you ask, no, she is not the one who banished your father.”

“What?”

“A tragic tale, as she said.”

Well, that was certainly something. And it explained Father's discomfort around the nobility and the ranks of the Thalmor, and why he'd never elaborated on their connections to that kinhouse.

If this Rei'dar knew that....

“Did you know my grandfather?” Kynril asked.

“I met him, in life. A good and courageous mer, like you. A bit... hm, how to describe him... eccentric? But he was pleasant.”

“May I speak to him?”

“He does not wish to come back to Nirn. No, he was most displeased with its state when he died, and then the cold-blooded bastard who killed him forced him to come back as an undead thrall. It was quite traumatic.”

“ _What?_ Trinimac watch over his soul....”

“He got better. That is what he does. And now? Now, he cannot be pulled away from his... quarrels with your other ancestors. Rei'dar admits, he will be sad to know that you have been pulled into the Dominion's ranks. But he is not one who would blame your circumstance.”

Well, Father hadn't been happy about it either. “I see....”

“Anything else?”

“I.... By chance, do you know any of my mother's family?”

“You wish to see Sillawe, cub?”

That was her name, wasn't it? But... it was not _done_ to bother deceased parents.

“Please, tell her I'm grateful for everything.”

“Oh, she knows. And she knows you love her and miss her. But she will try to tell her again. And she still loves you, of course. Now, let Rei'dar see.... What is this? There is no sign of Sillawe's mother! Another realm, perhaps...? And... ah. But by the moons, Sillawe's father is even more ancient than Kyndoril's. She did not think mer could live _that_ long. But here you are. Their legacy.”

“Thank you, honored grandmother.”

His stomach growled. Oh, right. He'd barely had time to eat before the news had come. And, he suddenly remembered, it would not do to be caught talking to a Khajiiti ancestor. (Gods, what if someone had already seen...?) So, Kynril bowed and prepared to bid farewell.

“Wait, cub! A message from your mother's father. He says... 'The Light of Auri-El shines brightly upon you, as it did your grandmother. You are beloved by the Dragon, and will know his power when the time comes. Do not be afraid, Sun-Blessed child of the south.' … Whatever that means. Just because Rei'dar married an elf doesn't mean she understands your shaveskin ways.”

Grateful as Kynril was for the comfort, he questioned what he had seen. Had the ancestors spoken through some half-truth to obscure a deeper meaning, one that someone of his lowborn status could not comprehend? For all the Khajiit's excitement, he could not deny her tale was... outlandish. And... a Khajiit? Really?

He did not dare ask the priest. Such ideas bordered heresy.

No, it was much easier to blame the fumes in the temple for what he had surely imagined. Or the grief. Or the entire bottle of wine he had yet to drink, that he would surely regret hours after.


	5. 4E 177

A decade of thorough martial training. A decade to learn how to wield a blade and perfect his swordsmership. A decade of afternoons at the archery range, learning to hold a bow and hit a mark. A decade of learning to bend the minds of lessers to his will, to suggest that they should quake at the sight of him and either cower at his feet or turn and run.

All right, so magic was not his forte. He could dissuade a large mudcrab from seeing him as food or unnerve a comrade during training. Beyond that, he could heal minor wounds.

Kynril would certainly not see the rank of battlemage.

But the years of discipline, of training had strengthened him. The effect was uncanny. How _ironic_ that a champion of the Aldmeri Dominion should have a physique reminiscent of her enemies. The humble muscle of a young dock worker had been replaced by thicker trunk and limbs. Arms and legs that had once protested long hours of toil now seemed tireless.

The thin boy who'd trudged away from Vulkhel Guard was gone.

The same could be said of all his peers, or at least those who remained.

And none of them had to deal with the great inconvenience that was shaving yet. Gods! A beard! And before thirty, or a more appropriate age, like two-hundred. And beards were a sign of experience and distinction, for the mages and officers. He was at least provided with everything he needed to keep his face modestly smooth.

Kynril ran a hand over his face in the shaving glass and examined himself. An oddly long stray white hair poked out of his cheek, vivid against brown. He plucked it, and was glad the wax had done a better job on his chin and jawline. But there were bags under his green eyes. And his face seemed a little taut....

He checked the appearance of his newly-trimmed hair, then adjusted his formal spidersilk robes.

The temple of Firsthold awaited.

–

When the Empire had invaded centuries ago and forced the surrender of the Summerset Isles, they had been quick to establish the presence of their so-called Divines. A chapel of Talos, they had placed in Firsthold to offend the High Kinlord Rilis XV, not even permitting that it be built in any shape pleasing to Altmeri tastes. Its very presence was a scar.

The Great Anguish and resulting rebellion had seen it... forcibly redecorated, or so Kynril had heard. Stained glass windows depicting the false God of Man were shattered. Tapestries of Cyrodilic glories were burned. Wastefully elaborate pews were cut and thrown to the fires. And then the Imperials were forced to scour the ash and grime from the shell of their own temple, before being mercifully banished, expelled on a ship bound for Anvil.

The Colovian brick shell remained as a testament to the dangers of Men. And then it was restored in elven fashion, to prove the grace and perseverance of Mer. New doors were made of Valenwood oak, their handles and fittings and ornamentation wrought from moonstone. Special windows were crafted, to catch the light of Aetherius and bathe the temple in its perfect glow.

And, of course, the building was nestled in a large garden of hedges and flowers and gorapple trees. One that he had scarce time to admire before being ushered inside for final preparations.

Soon enough, Kynril knelt before the shrine of the Aedra.

A war come and gone, without his blade or body caught up in it. The Empire of Man, finally forced to recognize its frailty, brought to its knees before Mer. The Aldmeri Dominion all but ruled its conquest. The Empire had surrendered, stalled the inevitable, signed the White-Gold Concordat for the sake of maintaining some measure of sovereignty.

The Aldmeri Dominion was not so naive as to leave them alone in their defeat. And new law required enforcers. A mer of his caliber was suitable for that task.

Kynril took a breath and began to recite what he'd spent the better part of the month memorizing.

“I swear my undying loyalty to the ancient blood of Aldmeris, to the Aldmeri Dominion, to the Thalmor, to His Majesty Angalion Adapar Aldmeri, High King of Alinor, Lord of the Crystal Shores.

“In Y'ffre's name, Tamriel's natural beauty and the ancient truths shall be restored.

“By Trinimac's valor, the blows of Man shall be stemmed and met with due strength.

“Through Auri-El's justice shall the petty kingdoms of Man fall to a new era of Aldmeri glory.

“This I vow before the Aedra, our highest and most holy ancestors. May they guide my thoughts, my words, and my hands. For I am their humble servant, a Fist of the Thalmor.”

As the last word passed from his lips, he finally felt the weight of his new role.

Thalmor. He wondered what Father would think of him now, and hoped that he was not ashamed in Aetherius.

But thank Xarxes. The Aldarch of Auridon and the Thalmor officer were pleased.


	6. 4E 180

“Following intelligence reports, you discover a Talos shrine hidden in the hills. A human is there, a young and fairly attractive woman. She appears to be praying. When she sees you, she attempts to flee in the other direction. How do you act?”

The Firsthold office was small and cold, despite the fire crackling in the hearth. Justiciar Kynril sat in the stiff chair in front of the desk, across from his commanding officer – his instructor, and chose his words carefully.

There was no question as to what was expected. To let a possible heretic escape was unthinkable. And to have such base standards as to consider a _human_ pretty, or worse, let it affect his judgment? No, his answer needed to reflect an approach befitting an esteemed mer of the Thalmor.

“First, I command her to halt, in fair and just warning,” Kynril said.

His instructor raised one eyebrow. “She now has several yards' head start on you and might slip away in the environment.”

“What?”

“And in your confusion, you've lost her. You confirm that the Talos shrine exists, but have no captive to show for it.”

Kynril bit his lip.

“Protocol is worthless in the field, justiciar,” said the instructor. “When you are alone and facing a potential threat – and every Talos heretic is a threat – you cannot afford to waste time with procedure. You will find yourself dead with nothing to show for your efforts.”

“Then I am to skip straight to subduing them.”

“Yes. Now, imagine that this situation occurs in a city instead. You know the woman has engaged in private worship, and has been seen in the company of high-profile suspects. Now you have cause and opportunity to make an arrest.”

“I command her to halt.”

“Why?”

“The Thalmor are the law,” Kynril said. “We conduct ourselves as lords over men, not as barbarians.”

“And if she flees, or resists?”

He considered his words. Something in him screamed that death was undeserved. And that was true. “That would be folly on her part. She will face justice before the Thalmor, with or without her cooperation.”

A vague answer, but if the instructor was displeased, he said nothing of that.

“And what will become of the captured heretic?”

“We are obligated to work within the bounds of Imperial law,” said Kynril. “The prisoner's fate is not mine to decide. Unless I have other orders, or we already have undeniable proof of her crimes, she will be tried before the Thalmor and her lord, count, jarl, whoever sits the throne.”

“Correct. The illusion of self-rule has its uses.”

The instructor turned his head to the window. Towering clouds had started to roll in, threatening a storm. And Kynril battened his own mind for the next question.

“You are assigned to root out a dissident in your area. The suspect has been gathering support for a local rebellion. You finally corner him, only to discover that he is your own father.”

Kynril blinked. Oh, gods, was he serious? “I.... Well. Er. First, I would have to ask, 'Father? What in Oblivion? What necromancer did this to you?'”

“Ah. My condolences, justiciar. But, for the purpose of this exercise, assume that he is alive.”

“I.... I would....” Oh, no. Hesitation was a mark of the weak, and damn him for showing it. “I arrest him and bring him to my superiors for questioning and trial.”

“Your own father?”

“My loyalty is to the Thalmor and the Aldmeri Dominion. I would not relish kin-slaying. But we cannot abide traitors among us.”

And Kynril silently prayed that the ancestors knew he lied.

The officer's eyes narrowed. “An... adequate answer. Well, justiciar, you seem to have a grasp of protocol. Your martial skill is satisfactory. And I can see that you carry Mara's compassion beneath your breast, as do all mer. But do not mistake the urges of a soft heart for mercy. Remember that Stendarr's will was folly, and must be answered now with the steadfast hand of Trinimac.”

Of course. He did remember his oath. “May Trinimac guide my blade.”

And may Stendarr keep me and remind me of temperance should I falter, he added silently.

“I think we can put you to use. Tell me, justiciar. What do you know of the Colovian lands?”


	7. 4E 187

Kynril was not sure what he had expected from Chorrol.

Barbarian Men of the heartland, fearsome of stature, mighty in size! Perhaps, to Bosmer. Perhaps that could be said of the few local Nords. But the Imperials, they barely reached his chin, and he himself was a little short for an Altmer.

A quiet city, nestled in the hills of the Colovian highlands. But it had not escaped the touch of war. The Year One-Seventy-Two execution of the abbot of Weynon Priory, rather than scaring Chorrol into submission, had stirred feeble resistance. Resistance that swiftly broke once the Dominion's mages brought down their gates.

Attempts of rebellion! Men conspiring, waiting to stage another failed takeover of their city! But years of Aldmeri guidance had rooted out much of the danger. And the city was too busy repairing destroyed gates and houses. As for new arrivals in the city, they were more interested in finding family or aiding the rebuilding than they were in causing trouble.

No, his duties were simple and varied and shared with his fellow justiciars. Watch over the great Chapel of Stendarr to make sure that no Talos worship continued within its halls. Check on Weynon Priory, for the same reasons. Patrol the city and the roads, armored from head to foot in oil-black and silver leather, moonstone blade sheathed at his hip.

And, of course, there was the safety of the people to keep in mind. Highwaymen had grown bold after the war and set upon travellers and merchants.

He tried not to dwell on his first real fight. What the highwaymen had wanted with a lumber shipment was beyond him. But the first had fallen so easily, thrown off balance with a solid blow from his shield. And the justiciar accompanying him had seen fit to slit the man's throat while he was down rather than arrest him.

That image stuck with him. Oh, it had faded over the years. It came back to haunt him less often, and he recovered just a little faster each time. But the sickness in his gut was the same.

Such grim occasions were thankfully rare in his duty.

And life stationed in Chorrol did have its perks.

The monks of Weynon Priory allowed him to read through their books, the histories of Cyrodiil and all its dealings with Tamriel. Though, he did suspect that their allowance was grudging and born of fear, and that the selection of material was limited due to the ban on anything suggesting human godhood, and that the ancient Alessian Order had made sure no accurate accountings of Merethic or First Era Cyrodiil survived.

They had, at the very least, saved many writings in Ayleidoon and Old Aldmeris, as a curiosity from a distant past. They did not deny him time to study these, and Xarxes be praised, it was not long before tongues of the ancient past made sense to him.

The chapel of Stendarr was something of a haven. Oh, yes, the Imperial Stendarr was a god of conquest, not mercy. How the humans had skewed him in their worship! But it was a quiet place, and there _was_ some warm Aedric presence within its walls.

And the streets, the gardens of oaks and northern flowers, the Colovian architecture had their own charm.

One morning patrol, however, found the peace disturbed.

Small cries caught his ear. The sounds of children... in pain! Kynril hastened his steps and found the source of the commotion.

It was a fight. And dear Stendarr, it was a single child against three older boys, at least half a dozen more children watching with fear and fascination. The lone child, a small girl, had pinned one of the boys to the ground and begun striking at his face.

Kynril stepped closer to the fray. “All right, that's quite enough.”

Children. Breaking up a street fight between _children_. His Summerset accent got their attention quickly. They looked up and, with several little gasps and shouts, scattered.

All except the girl and her victim. Her _Nord_ victim, twice her size, probably ten by the looks of him.

The girl raised a tiny fist for an especially vicious punch; Kynril knelt quickly and caught it in his gloved hand. “Enough, little one. This battle is yours.”

The girl yelped and turned to face him, and the boy took the chance to retreat. And the girl stared, eyes widening in fright as she took in his appearance.

Kynril tried to smile. “It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you. Go home, all right?”

But _no_ , human children were of _Lorkhan_.

Her fist connected with his cheek. It wasn't much of a blow to him, but he stood to remove his face from her reach in case she decided to go for his nose or eyes next.

“Don't _do_ that,” Kynril said. The girl began kicking his shins instead. He didn't feel much through his guards. “Gods, child, do you know who I am?”

“You're one of those bad elves!”

Ah. So somebody had taught her to fear the Thalmor, but the message of prudent respect had not taken.

“I am a Thalmor justiciar and guardsmer. I'll forgive your poor behavior, but you really should mind your manners....”

Her assault continued.

“Thalmor can... be very mean to naughty children. Please, stop this.”

“You're a bad elf!”

He sighed. Well, the child had answered _one_ question. Perhaps another approach would work.

“What is your name?”

“Wyrenna.”

The answer was automatic, and the kicking stopped. But the poor girl looked dismayed.

The child feared him, and he did feel pity. He could still remember being that small, staying close to Father as they passed the guards and Thalmor in Auridon. And they hadn't been _conquered_. Mara knew how scared the girl had to be, a daughter of Men brought to heel.

“And where are your parents?”

“The silversmith's....”

Ah, he knew that place. Some frail-looking Imperial, married to a Nord woman. Yes, the Nord _had_ been with child just a few years ago! So, the girl was their offspring?

“I'm going to walk you home now, all right?”

Kynril offered his hand.

Wyrenna bit him.


	8. 4E 196 - Sun's Dusk

Life in Chorrol gradually slowed. With much of the reconstruction finished, tradesmen came less often. Children grew up, and petty mischief in the streets was a little more rare. Entire families left without warning.

Even the half-Nord daedra of a child and her parents had, some years ago, packed and left for Bruma. Which was a shame. The girl was learning to behave herself, and her parents were decent company. Kynril had at least had the chance to bid them farewell at the gates as they left in the wife's cart.

But strong was the relief.

It was incredible that their family had gone so long undetected. The Thalmor had never taken interest in them, never ordered a raid on their house. The rest of the Thalmor were never invited to stay for hearty Nordic cuisine and mead.

The song that the child sometimes hummed – a hymn to Talos! Luckily, she'd quickly taken more interest in Stendarr, once introduced at the chapel. The carved wooden image of a man with a down-turned sword on their mantle – common enough, perfectly innocent, if not for the Nedic-styled Dragon close by. And the misshapen silver trinket in the Imperial's store! There could not have been a more brazen display of heathen worship in their household.

And he could not bring himself to arrest them. He couldn't stomach the idea.

The Nord woman was honorable. She'd had little trust for him, and that was understandable. But he'd protected her daughter on occasion, and she'd granted him hospitality in return. She was among many who had come to Chorrol to bring aid after the Dominion's onslaught. She clearly carried Mara with her.

The Imperial was ill. And it was shocking how his health dwindled over the years. He was not long for Nirn, and Kynril had no wish to speed him to Aetherius. Besides, the man had caused no trouble in the city, but worked his silver in peace.

And then there was the child, who did not deserve to lose her parents. And gods only knew if the Thalmor would even spare her.

No. He'd left them to their heresy and spoken nothing of it. And a weight had lifted from his mind when they left. The Chorrol Thalmor would never learn their secret, and would never punish him for it. There was nothing left to do but continue keeping his mouth shut and pray Auri-El kept them safe. Even if they were Talos-worshipping heathens.

Ah, that had been years ago.

His skin itched as he remembered. They weren't the only ones he'd intentionally let slip away.

Some Breton woman and her Bosmeri wife. Casual heretics, too foolish to let go of trinkets commemorating Hjalti Early-Beard of Alcaire.

Some Nord man who honored Talos at his father's grave, before leaving for Bruma with his mother and children.

An Argonian. An _Argonian! Why?_

A Khajiit, convinced that Tiber Septim had been the Dark Mane manifested in some human, and did not worship him as much as hope he remained dead. She'd left a year ago, in search of warmer sands.

Two middle-aged Cyrod men, lovers who'd never been wed under Imperial law. They'd departed just that morning. Kynril had convinced them to ask a Dominion priest for Mara's blessing some years ago.

Many more humans, all perfectly harmless.

And some heretics remained quietly in town, and at Weynon Priory....

Whatever foolishness lurked in their hearts and minds, what were they before Thalmor law? Y'ffre, Trinimac, Auri-El forgive him. There was no threat to be found in defeated peasants! How could he be expected to keep his vows?

Guilt and fear pulled at his heart. And Kynril sighed in his bunk and downed the rest of his tea, and wished he could leave on one of those carts. To go to a place where nobody's life was in his hands and his neck wasn't on a line for it. Perhaps it was time to request reassignment.

“Something wrong, Kyn?”

Kynril glanced up and saw bright amber eyes looking at him from across the room. Red hair draping over broad shoulders. A warm smile.

“Solirion... how long have you been here?” Kynril asked.

“About ten minutes.”

“In Chorrol....”

“Hm. Well, I remember when you showed up. Might have been a few months by then....”

“Hm....” He inspected his mug. It was old and stiff and wooden. He related to it.

Kynril nearly missed Solirion getting off his own bunk, walking over to his bedside, and bending quite low, quite close to his ear....

“What say we make the most of our night?” Solirion murmured. “None of the other shifts return for a few hours. Interested?”

He felt a familiar warmth in his cheeks and loins. “What, really? Right now?”

“Mm-hm. But what say you?”

“Yes. _Stars_ , Solirion, _yes_.”

–

Solirion usually helped him start a day in better spirits. He rose from bed, still a bit anxious but lighter in heart, dressed, and combed his hair. Ah, he could still feel the mer's fingers in it, and his thighs were just a little stiff. But his patrol would fix that....

He didn't make it to the front doors before the commander stopped him.

“Come with me, justiciar.”

His voice was cold. And as Kynril found himself led away, his mind raced. Had his night with Solirion been found out? Had he risen too late? Was some task not done to satisfaction?

“I've been reviewing your records, Kynril. And frankly, I'm disappointed. You are young, strong, and capable. But it seems the Thalmor have neglected certain parts of your training. That will be corrected.”

Oh, thank gods. More training? That was all? His heart leapt and he briefly gave Stendarr his thanks.

“Of course,” Kynril said. “I will gladly undertake whatever task is seen fit, if I can be of more use to the Dominion.”

“Good.” The commander reached the door to the training yard. “We'll begin here.”

The yard was secluded, separated from the rest of Chorrol by a high stone wall, ringed with straw dummies and targets for marksmership and spellcasting. A wide space was left for sparring. But... this was odd. Several armored justiciars were standing around the middle. Solirion, even. The mer... avoided his eyes?

“What's this?” Kynril breathed.

For in the middle of the ring of justiciars sat two figures, cringing, shaking in the dawn's light. Their hands and feet were bound. He recognized them. The Imperial couple.

“These heretics were apprehended yesterday morning as they passed Weynon Priory,” said the commander. “Not only were they praying to Talos in their hovel, but we found evidence that they helped coordinate seditious activities. They thought to escape the Thalmor's justice by fleeing Chorrol. They have both confessed their guilt.”

Kynril knew exactly what was going to be asked of him. Stendarr preserve him.

“But the Dominion is merciful,” said the commander. “Their death will be swift. Would you prefer your sword, or an axe?”

Neither. By all gods, neither!

“C-Commander.... With all respect,” Kynril began, “surely... surely... they understand now the magnitude of their sins.” His voice wavered, faded as he spoke. “Could we... could we not simply....”

“They are to die for their crimes, by law of the Dominion.”

“There are other ways....”

The commander's voice hardened. “Choose your blade, justiciar, and prove your loyalty.”

Kynril flinched as every Dominion face turned to watch him.

“I am not disloyal to the Thalmor, and... I'm certain _they_ would swear fealty if spared,” he tried. “We could make servants of them. They are harmless. Do we not observe the deeds of Stendarr?”

“You will embody Stendarr by granting them a quick death.”

“I... I can't.” Gods, no, he felt his eyes water. What was left of his dignity spilled down his cheeks, to his shame, before half his unit. “I... I will not.... Commander, I beg you, don't do this....”

The commander fixed his stare on him. His gold eyes were completely pitiless.

“I offered you a chance.” Then to the others, “Restrain him.”

Before he could move, or think, or react, his own comrades surrounded him. Mer he'd ate with, laughed with, patrolled with, sparred with, slept with... they forced him to his knees. Langwe had his left shoulder. Falendil, his right. They held him and his head up, forced to watch....

The commander advanced on the sobbing Imperials, gloved hands sparking with magic.

–

The cell was cool. Pleasantly cool. The cold was supposed to be painful, wasn't it? No. The cold stone walls and floor were a blessing. They soothed the bruises on his body, the beating he'd taken for his crimes. The blessed cold kept his mind in his cell and off of....

The commander. He'd done it. Killed them with lightning. Then turned on him, promised that the same fate awaited him.

How long had he been down there? How long did he have before the end?

His leather armor sat in a pile in another corner of the room, beyond the bars of his cell. It had been stripped from him and left there, a reminder of what he no longer was. What he would never be again.

An inquisitor came and went, with questions. And Kynril answered... everything.

Yes, he'd known that the men were trying to avoid the Thalmor.

Yes, he'd known they worshipped Talos.

Yes, he'd known for years.

No, he'd never arrested them.

No, he'd never made a report of it.

No, he'd never noticed signs of rebellion.

No, he did not expect clemency....

No, he did not deserve it.... He did not deserve it, but he asked... no, he begged....

No, he did not deserve their time, he was so far beneath them, but he would crawl for a chance to just return to duty, to serve, to live....

Sometimes, he managed to steel himself. No. No, he did not know of other heretics.

The inquisitor probably did not believe him. But he was not pressed.

–

“Such a shame,” the inquisitor said one visit. “I've reviewed your record, Kynril.”

Everyone had, these days. Kynril pretended not to have heard him.

“It's a shame that we must lose a mer of such a high bloodline.”

He looked up from his seat on the floor. The inquisitor's expression was hard to judge, when he towered over him, when his face was obscured by a black silk hood.

Kynril turned his gaze back to the brick wall of his cell. “I am lowborn.”

“Did anyone ever tell you how your father came to live in Vulkhel Guard?”

Kynril looked up again. Hadn't the mer always been there?

But... there was a memory, a faint one. A Khajiiti woman, her ghostly features even more blurred in his mind. What was her name? Rid'daro? Ren...? And her words slipped from his mind like thin sand.

No, no, that had never happened.

It had all been a dream, from the grieving mind of a younger, drunken mer.

“The mer was as much a traitor as yourself,” said the inquisitor, folding his arms and leaning back against the wall. “The heir to the ancient and esteemed Luxurene. But the fool abandoned Alinor. He disappeared to Tamriel when he was your age. And then he came crawling back to the safety of the Dominion decades later, with some halfbred whore on his arm.”

Kynril stared. Luxurene? No, he could not have said _that_. And... _what_ had he called his mother? His heart pounded with fear and anger, but he could not form a response.

“They were banished from Luxurene by your noble aunt. And then they took their place in the slums of Vulkhel Guard.”

It couldn't have been real.

Right?

But there was the weight in his mind. The heaviness of the air. The feeling that he was very naked, as if the stone and wood above had vanished, leaving the ancestors to see him in his squalor and scorn him for his years of disbelief and rejection.

“You remember Vulkhel Guard, don't you? The beautiful Temple of Auri-El? The great lighthouse? The canonreeve's manor? It's such a shame, that you will never lay eyes on the city again....”

Oh, there was the reminder of his death. Yes, those ancestors would have the chance to give him an earful soon enough... if he was not condemned to Oblivion. But there was no more point in begging.

“Normally, we would contact your house,” the inquisitor went on. “Tradition dictates that we grant your family time to intervene. To plead on your behalf. To pay the weight of your crimes in gold. And then you would be returned to them. But your parents are dead, aren't they? And your aunt, the Kinlady, has passed to Aetherius. The burden would now fall upon your cousin.”

Father had mentioned a cousin, once....

“Lord Valamand is now a skilled battlemage in service of the Thalmor. I do not think you would like his answer, were we to ask him.”

“W-wait. I... I would ask him.”

The inquisitor smiled. It was, of course, the look of a mer who had won.

But Kynril abandoned his dignity again. Whatever hope he had, he would take it! Even a relation he'd never met. Even one that probably hated his father.

“Please, sir. Could you send word?” he asked. “If... if Lord Valamand would consider me, I would.... My gratitude would....”

“What interest would Lord Valamand have in a wretched traitor?”

“I'm....” He was _family_ , was he not? Of course he remembered the words of his father. The lords could not afford to watch over every relation. But what else did he have? “Am I all that remains of his family? I've no one else.”

“Correct. You and your cousin are the last of your bloodline.”

“Then... _please_....”

“Oh, but your blood is no loss. Your mother was certainly not an Altmer, and _you_ are no child of Auri-El. What good is a tainted halfbreed to such an esteemed house?”

And there was a question he could not answer.

The inquisitor left.

–

Perhaps, if he was to die, he would see Father again. He would be so disappointed. To let himself be pulled into the Thalmor, and then die by their hands.

And Mother... Mother had passed when he was so young. He could not remember her, her face, or her voice. Father said he resembled her. And if she wasn't Altmer, then where had she come from? Could he finally ask, in Aetherius?

He thought of the Khajiiti spirit. So, she had been real. And he had been a foolish, fearful cub to put her out of his thoughts.... A kinhouse, so close and so out of reach, a banished father.... What else, then, had she tried to tell him, that he had forgotten?

Somewhere above, a door creaked open. And his insides clenched in dread as he sat up.

At least three sets of boots sounded on the stairs....

And the commander appeared, flanked by an inquisitor and two armored mer he'd never seen before, mer who wrote the eagle armor of the Dominion instead of guardsmer leathers.

Real, hardened mer in eagle armor. The last remnant of hope withered away; if _these_ mer had come to fetch him....

He meekly rearranged himself to kneel on the floor – one last attempt at supplication before the end.

The inquisitor spoke. “As you can see, despite all weakness, he holds respect for his betters and may yet be molded into a more useful mer. Yes, I think this is the best course.”

He did not dare to raise his head or open his eyes. No, surely he had heard wrong. It was only a matter of seconds, then they would haul him outside and....

“Respect, or cowardice? It would serve the Dominion to loose lightning through his neck and be done with him.”

“And send our guests back empty-handed?”

Had he heard right?

The commander finally addressed him again. “Get up, justiciar.”

Kynril pushed himself to his feet as his mind spun and his hands shook. Gods, how long had he been in his cell? His legs wobbled, and it was a struggle not to steady himself on the bars. He could not meet his commander's eyes.

“You are being reassigned. May your new commanding officer find some worth that we could not.”

They did not offer him his armor, and he did not look upon it again.

–

A hot bath to wash away the stench, fresh clothes, and one meal.

Bowing his head as he passed before the eyes of his unit. Resisting the urge to say his farewells.

Resurging doubt and fear as the heavily armored mer led him to a horse and cart. His relief as his guards warned him of Skyrim's cold, all the proof he needed that this was not some cruel game, that he was truly leaving and not being taken to his executioner.

Gratitude and shame battling in his heart as they passed by the chapel of Stendarr.

Those would be his last memories of Chorrol.


	9. 4E 196 - Evening Star

The new Thalmor and their horse-drawn cart took him north, beyond the Jeralls, into a stark and old pine forest that had already seen Y'ffre's cold northern wrath. Kynril had started to sweat under all the furs his escorts gave him, but he was reluctant to shed them. There was no sense letting them think him ungrateful. And all the ice and snow would surely chill him if he dared.

They drove beyond a frozen lake and further north and then west, until they reached more mountain.

If his guess was right, they were finally entering the Druadachs.... The snow had not quite reached them yet. The hills and valleys were, for the most part, clear.

The other Thalmor warned him that at any moment, they might be set upon by Reachmen – Bretons who had long lived between High Rock and Skyrim, subject to either country's whims, who despite their old Aldmeri blood had long ago fallen into practices of Daedra worship and barbarism.

“Were they not our allies, once?” Kynril asked.

“The Aldmeri Dominion does not recognize its former alliance with the Reach, though they did benefit from our conquest of Cyrodiil,” explained one of the guards. “While the legions of Skyrim were distracted, they retook their ancestral lands and ruled for some time. The Empire thought, then, to grant them their mountains. But the Nords, in their bloodlust and rage, conquered Markarth again, and those who could fled to regroup. They've lurked in these hills ever since, and are hostile to all outsiders.”

“Ah, yes. The Markarth incident, Ulfric Stormcloak, the Talos worship, the arrests....”

“Be prepared, justiciar. Many of the Reachmen still live in Markarth. They toil now under their Nordic conquerors, and the peace is fragile.”

“I'm sure there is wisdom in our presence in Markarth. But....”

“Markarth's importance is not for you to understand, justiciar. But if you must have answers, save this for the commander. He is perhaps the only officer who will suffer you to ask.”

–

They arrived outside the great stone gates on an overcast afternoon.

Markarth! A real, ancient Dwemer city, once know as Nchuand-Zel!

But there was no time to admire the stonework. And to say that the population was less welcoming than Chorrol's was a great understatement. And by the gods, his heart already ached for warmer weather and plants. The coming winter had touched the Colovian west too, but _not like this,_ and at least Chorrol had trees, bare as they were now.

The Thalmor barracks was above the city, in Understone Keep. And his legs complained as they climbed the stone steps. Time in prison and in a cart had not been kind to him.

The interior was... disappointing. Despite the Nords' enthusiasm to live in Nchuand-Zel, they had not spent much time restoring it beyond a minimum. Exposed rock and dirt were everywhere and mushrooms grew from parts of that ruined floor. Then again, were the Nords to be trusted with elven works?

Other Thalmor caught his eye right away. And like his escort, they wore eagle armor, as if posted in a war zone and not a conquered city.

They passed the throne room, walked through a short series of halls. And then they came to two great brass doors. He remembered, then, what introduction awaited. But there was hardly time to compose himself, and he looked like a vagrant in furs and simple traveling clothes. Kynril steadied himself with a deep breath as one of his guards pushed a door open and led the way in. It closed behind them with a heavy metallic clunk.

A mer in battlemage robes sat at a table, in conversation with a brown-furred, black-striped Khajiit. The Khajiit cast a brief look at him, and Kynril froze while a peculiar dread swept over.

“Ah, he sees there is business now,” the Khajiit said. “He will be waiting after, yes?”

The battlemage, obviously the commander, turned in his seat, then stood. Oh, Stars, he was tall....

The guards saluted, and then a bit of discussion ensued while Kynril stood by. Something about a new justiciar (presumably him, of course), the journey from Chorrol, the roads....

Kynril eyed the rest of the barracks. Well, at least no armor was required here. Mer rested in simple attire and robes, on fur-covered stone beds along the walls, in chairs by a hearth, at one of a few smaller wooden tables next to the large one where the commander spoke....

And it was already more comfortable than what he'd expected. Rugs had been brought in to cover the cold rocky floor. Lavender sprigs and other flowers sat in neat bundles around the chamber. And... yes, they had even set up a basin and a small shrine to the Aedra across from the fire!

“You are, of course, welcome to stay the night,” the commander said, jerking him back to his situation.

“We must regretfully decline. Our schedule is tight, and Her Excellency will not be amused by delay.”

“Are you certain? I would write your excuse for the First Emissary by my own hand.”

“You are gracious. Very well.”

“Ren'dar, I hate to ask, but would you...?”

“Of course,” said the Khajiit. And then he turned to the First Emissary's mer with a grin. “Come, come! You will find no better hosts in all of Markarth! Just ask the heretics....”

“Kynril, is it?”

Kynril snapped to attention. “Sir?”

The commander turned to a door across the hall and motioned for him to follow. It opened to a smaller room, with another stone bed, a large wooden desk with cushioned chairs on either side of it. And... by the Stars, he had books, some piled awkwardly on a corner of the desk, others on a nightstand, many more on shelves behind the desk. They couldn't have all been Thalmor records....

“Have a seat, justiciar,” said the commander, closing the door behind him.

Kynril swallowed his fear and took the closest chair. Now. Now was surely the time for another axe to fall. Only one of words, thank the gods.

“You sit before Ondolemar,” said the mer, crossing the room. “Second Emissary to Skyrim, Thalmor Magistrate and Inquisitor of Markarth, Aldarch of Auri-El, and Commander of the Thalmor Justiciars in Skyrim.” Ondolemar pulled something from a shelf – two bottles of mead? He passed one to Kynril. “But I ask that you simply refer to me as your commander.”

Kynril blinked. What madness was this? What were the Thalmor thinking, sending him to a mer of such esteem? “I... I am unworthy to call you my commander.”

“Why on Nirn would you believe that?”

Ondolemar took his seat on the other side of the desk and lowered his hood. Something about the face was familiar. Green eyes, silvery hair shaved close to the scalp, beard neatly trimmed....

“I....”

“You don't have to answer that. Know that it is my pleasure to welcome you to my ranks.”

Ondolemar held several sheets of paper. “Let's see.... Justiciar Kynril of Vulkhel Guard, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Born to Kyndoril and Sillawe in... ah, forty-five years ago on this day! Well, may Y'ffre bless you with many years to come.”

Kynril fidgeted. His own birthday, spent with an officer with far too many titles. And of course he would forget the date, after everything he'd been through.

“Conscripted at age fifteen.... Formally enlisted just after sixteen....” Ondolemar shuffled through the documents. “Designated for service as a Thalmor justiciar ten years later.... And you were stationed in Chorrol after training! A fine city.... Ah, what have we here?”

The Thalmor commander frowned, and Kynril cringed in his chair.

“Hm. Disobedience, dereliction of duty, sympathizing with Talos heretics, aiding and abetting the escape of heretics and rebels, behavior unbecoming of.... Oh, by Trinimac's scrotum,” Ondolemar muttered, pausing to read the rest.

Kynril took a long drink from his mead to fill the silence.

The commander finally put his documents aside. “Well, it seems your only crimes are attempting to show mercy and being unable to conceal your grief. As an officer of Skyrim, I am unable to override the will of the Commander Arandur. But take comfort. Stendarr smiles upon your judgment, for it is no folly to spare those who cannot touch us. And I believe Arandur will come to regret dismissing such a steadfast mer.”

“I... am honored to hear such praise, Your Excellency.”

“Commander.”

“Commander. I.... Sorry.”

“Do not apologize. You are in a rare position, for a mer. One where you are allowed to ignore most of my titles.” Ondolemar smiled. “But I warn you, your new comrades are ruthless, the Khajiit Ren'dar foremost among them. If they hear one 'Excellency' or 'Grace' out of you in reference to me, you will be teased without remorse.”

Ruthless comrades, hm? Kynril wondered what his old unit would think. He could only remember Solirion's eyes, hardened, refusal to even look at him. Langwe's grip on his arm as she forced him to his knees. Falendil not permitting him to turn away.

No, not again. He should have been done with tears.

Ondolemar passed him a kerchief. “This has undoubtedly been difficult for you. I expect you to begin your duties here in one week. Until then, rest, and become acquainted with my barracks.”


	10. 4E 201 - Sun's Height

As he quickly learned, Markarth was an entirely different assignment from his life in Chorrol.

He rose in the early hours of the morning, donned his own eagle armor, and set to patrolling the halls, following Ondolemar, or guarding the Jarl Igmund's court – whatever was required of him until Magnus peaked in the sky.

Then he would retreat to the barracks and settle into lighter clothes for the day, and spend his time reading. Ondolemar had been incredibly generous, to let him borrow from his library, to pay part of his wage in advance, in _coin_ , so he could go buy more books.

And Markarth, despite being an Aedra-forsaken hole in the mountain, had some decent places to look. The esteemed wizard Calcelmo had been happy to sell him his own material on the Dwemer and some volumes on Merethic history written by other scholars from Alinor.

Oh, the crimes of the Atmorans were terrible. The ancient betrayal of the Falmer made cold fire burn in his veins. But it would be a lie that he did not find it all interesting, fascinating to some morbid degree, and he would spend hours combing through transcriptions of ancient Nordic runes and Dwemeris text (the latter was not so different from Old Aldmeris), letting every syllable set into his brain.

Eventually, Ondolemar had remarked on his new pallor and demanded that he go out and soak in the radiance of Magnus for a while. For he would not have his guardsmer become anything like the restless dead that lurked in the mountains of Skyrim. No, that and Sovngarde were the aspirations of _Nords_. Kynril found that he was relieved to feel the sun on his skin again. If only Markarth had a bit more greenery....

His duty did not demand he investigate the locals. Ondolemar had others for that, and he was far more lenient than Kynril had expected. Suspected Talos heretics were caught and brought in. And then they were... shamed. Shamed and released back into Markarth, sometimes with a fine to pay and, if Ondolemar was particularly displeased, orders to serve a light period of penance, for which they would usually report to the Priest of Arkay. It wasn't often that any single soul was dragged in a second time.

It was rare still that Ondolemar invoked the Dominion's right to claim a citizen from the Empire. And it was rarer still that Jarl Igmund was convinced to surrender anyone to the Dominion; for his cooperation required a confession, or irrefutable evidence of a crime, and those things were hard to obtain.

Heresy was intolerable. But petty worship could be forgiven for a harmless sentence. Why that was such a strange concept to the Thalmor, he did not understand.

And so Kynril adopted a different demeanor toward the civilians and all heretics dragged in. A mask of indifference toward a human's rage or terror. A distant calm and lordly grace, if ever thanked for a kindness. Ondolemar did not punish anything less, though he did warn against it. The Thalmor were not to befriend the locals or let any of the populace think themselves close. That made it so easy to relinquish control, and it was unpleasant to all involved to reestablish the proper order of things.

Oh, how Kynril had suffered for that in Chorrol. But here, he could be sure that no one who didn't deserve it would be harmed while he went about his duty.

He came to learn that Ondolemar even had a reputation beyond the walls of Markarth, that the Thalmor found him overly gentle. But only First Emissary Elenwen or a higher officer from Alinor could reprimand him, and it seemed they didn't give a mudcrab's backside what he did with the city so long as it remained under control.

The most serious threat did not lie with its petty heretics, but in the nobility. In a city as vast and crowded as Markarth, few noticed the handful of people who vanished every month. All lower class. Nearly always Reachmen.

These missing would soon be recorded as new prisoners in Cidhna Mine, a city silver operation owned and controlled by a certain prominent Nord clan: the Silver-Bloods.

Then there were the murders, often slain Nords. Every single report implicated the Forsworn. But something was foul, if Reachmen were entering the Silver-Blood clan's high-security prison and emerging as Forsworn assassins.

And the Nord guards were no help. They denied the existence of Forsworn in the city. And the murders always seemed to happen under their watch, and more followed wherever the citizens grew suspicious....

Igmund was useless, insisting that no Forsworn existed in his city. Challenging him on the matter would become a political nightmare. And First Emissary Elenwen had no interest in the chaos around them unless it threatened the Dominion's interests.

Year Two-Hundred and One brought news of murder in the north. High King Torygg had been slain by the very man who conquered Markarth not twenty-five years ago. Stormcloak sentiment spread through the city that summer. Things had been better under the rule of Ulfric, the Nords said. He was the only one the Reach had learned to fear.

And as the Silver-Bloods drew closer to Jarl Igmund and urged him to consider an alliance with the Butcher of Markarth, Ondolemar strengthened his guard. Elenwen, of course, was not concerned.

And in all of this, more Reachmen were taken, and the Forsworn grew bolder.

Markarth was a pocket of Oblivion, as far as assignments went. His lack of obligation to strike at other peasants was better for his conscience. But his heart ached as civilians slipped out of their grasp, into the mines and the burial halls.

Sun's Height was going to be trying. The Empire had sent a woman to negotiate with the Silver-Bloods, for acquisition of their mines. Stendarr protect her.

–

Ren'dar bumped into him, gave the most vicious hiss he had ever heard, and flew to the table where Ondolemar was waiting.

“We have a problem,” the Khajiit growled. “They're moving again. And this time the Orc smith's girl has got herself involved!”

The Orc smith? Ghorza? Oh, yes. She did have a second apprentice....

Ondolemar frowned and opened a book. “Who else.”

“Reachman from the warrens, red hair, facial tattoos.”

“Ren'dar, you're on the keep. You know what to do.” Ondolemar stood and turned to the barracks. “Cironwe. Forgive me, but I need you in the city today. Find Linyon. He will accompany you.”

“As you wish, sir.”

As Cironwe hurried to buckle the armor she'd just shed an hour ago, Kynril was left to wait for bad news.

–

They recovered the smith's apprentice. Gods be praised, they'd finally recovered _someone_. Ren'dar had seen her sneak off, and Ondolemar had taken it upon himself to ensure her safe return.

Which, conveniently, involved an arrest for suspicion of heresy. She had gone to the city's old Talos shrine, after all. That gave right of custody to the Thalmor before all others. Let the Silver-Bloods figure out how to get around that! Their days were numbered.

The Breton – another Reachman according to Ondolemar's records – was frightened. The prisoners always were.

And, Kynril supposed, he felt Mara's compassion. The Breton looked startled that he approached her in the morning, surprised that he offered her a few of the books he'd read a dozen times. But she did seem more relaxed when left alone to read. And it was some time before he realized he'd broken protocol. But Ondolemar did not mind, and the Breton was a new case.

Unfortunately, her assertions of innocence threatened their lawful right to detain her. And so Ondolemar revealed their suspicion of the city guard and part of their intentions.

The Dominion could invoke their right to her citizenship. All would be well if she would just sign one confession. One confession, and Alinor could claim her. One confession, and she could serve the Dominion and escape the reach of Markarth's corruption.

That did nothing to help her anxieties. She refused. She pled that she was no heretic, that she had not crept into the Talos shrine to worship. Of course she feared the Thalmor, as was expected all of humans. And she was not willing to doubt the Markarth guards. But she would come around in time, as they so often did.

–

The Breton, though clearly a live one, had a strong aversion to silver. Ondolemar caught on immediately. Of all the lucky citizens they could have rescued, it had to be a werewolf. A daedric beast in the guise of a mortal!

But she was an insufferable dog, eager for company yet too quick to bark. Warning was due. And _Physicalities of Werewolves_ was close.

Her eyes, her voice were fearful as she returned the book and confessed her nature.

Damn him for giving her that one. He did not sleep well that night.

–

The Breton did not tolerate confinement well. She asked to be escorted through the keep, to Calcelmo, to find new books to pass her time.

And he, the fool, led her into a spider-infested pit, thinking to win the favor of the court wizard.

Ondolemar had never been so angry with him.

–

The Breton was a stubborn one, and did not _ask_ for leave to wander the next day. He hadn't been there when she'd crept out of the barracks to visit Ghorza.

Ondolemar seemed to think he'd encouraged her.

–

The Breton wanted something. She approached him with a new book. How sad, that the human thought he needed to be _bribed_ for his counsel.

And how sad that she doubted what mercy Ondolemar offered. He himself would not have believed it, had he not learned to trust his commander, had he not seen him treat the people of Markarth with gentle care. But surely what the Markarth guard wanted with her was a greater danger.

Why couldn't the Breton accept that?

–

Ren'dar was badly wounded. The guards had thrown him into the mines to punish him for witnessing their murder of a Reachman, to stop him from reporting back to Ondolemar. And in his escape, he had nearly died!

And still the Breton questioned Ondolemar's purpose and the truth of the guards!

But the damned cat, he was generous, and he had already formed a plan to give the woman exactly what proof she sought. And it involved him.

It was foolishness. No, gods no, they would all be dead if found out....

Did the Breton not understand the dangers? His mind flashed to Chorrol.... To a commander who had been pleasant, even friendly to him until he found the limits of his tolerance.

Ondolemar had been lenient so far, but there would come a point when the mer stopped making allowances....

–

Ren'dar faking organ rupture had been all it took to get the other Thalmor out of the barracks, running to Ondolemar for his help.

The Breton took a potion of invisibility from the Khajiit's nightstand. And Kynril felt a wave of guilt as she asked him one more time to help her. The Breton ran off before he could refuse.

Ondolemar returned, visibly worried. He set to checking Ren'dar's abdomen, a faint glow of white light around his hands. In minutes, the creases on his face faded with relief.

“You're not dying. It is merely lingering pain from your injuries.”

“Oh... Ondolemar.... He thought he saw Khenarthi's wings....” Ren'dar groaned.

It was a good thing the mer had a _very_ soft spot for the cat. Otherwise he might have noticed how terrible his acting was.

“Gods, Ren.... If your wounds need more attention, then tell me next time. I'll bring you something to ease the pain, all right?”

Ondolemar straightened up and turned to go into his office.

Then he paused, and looked around the room.

“Ren?”

“Ondolemar?”

“Where is the Breton?”

“Ah.... Yes... about that.... Ren'dar apologizes for the ruse. But, it was good to see his dear friend's face again!”

What followed was a very interesting oath. One regarding certain parts of the Dragon. Parts described with a strange reverent profanity that only an Aldarch could achieve.

Kynril froze as the commander turned to him, and hated that he could not mask the guilt on his face.

Ondolemar's voice was dreadfully quiet. “I think you know exactly where she went.”

Kynril nodded.

“If she dies, it is on your head. Now go.”

And there was the end of Ondolemar's famed tolerance.

There was no time to waste arming himself. Kynril tightened the sash of his robe and hurried away.

–

They found what proof Ren'dar had planted, deep in the Markarth catacombs. Evidence against the Silver-Bloods, evidence that they were behind the city's Forsworn crisis, evidence that the Silver-Bloods and court conspired to be rid of her. The Breton finally accepted the reality of her situation, and resolved to accept the grace of the Thalmor.

But mercenaries! The Silver-Bloods had sent mercenaries to kill them!

Despite his lack of armor and physical weaponry, he managed to protect the Breton, long enough for her to save them both.

The Breton, the werewolf, she turned there and bore him out of Understone Keep on her back. She fled to the Talos shrine while Oblivion broke loose elsewhere in the city. And there they waited.

Ondolemar, thinking them disloyal for not returning, came to arrest them in the dead of night, when he could finally spare the time. But of course, Ondolemar was reasonable, and allowed them to explain themselves.

And though the Breton had run out of time to accept Ondolemar's first offer, the commander had a plan. One she quickly caught on to. How convenient, that they had chosen to shelter under Talos....

And there, it happened. A nightmare to rival anything that Vaermina herself could craft.


	11. 4E 201 - Sun's Height

A locked door and a strong muffling spell. That was all it took to transform Ondolemar's quarters into a secure chamber.

Had Kynril not been mer, that would have made the situation _more_ terrifying. Instead, he felt some small comfort in facing his commander, his judge, in complete privacy.

His crime: receiving a blessing of Talos, somehow. Shouting right after, as if he were some Nord out of any damned Skyrim legend. Something that suggested he... _no, no, there was no way he could have been...._

Ondolemar probably expected his defense. If only he could collect the words for it. If only he could stand to open his mouth. One little word had knocked his commander to the floor – a mistake Kynril was not eager to make again. What else could go wrong with words alone?

Ondolemar stood before him, the gilt of his robes flickering in the candlelight. Green eyes soft with pity, even while they pinned him where he stood.

“Have a seat, Kynril.”

He shivered, but obeyed, falling into the chair he'd occupied just a few winters ago. Kynril hadn't expected sympathy from Ondolemar then. Despite everything, he wasn't sure he could now.

He covered a yawn. The Breton had been given fresh clothes, kind reassurance that no more harm would come that night, and permission to go to bed. The Breton was not Thalmor, he reminded himself.

“Sir, please, can't we speak in the morning?”

“Oh, I would love to. But I've been wide awake for hours, cleaning up after your little gambit. Why stop _now_?” Ondolemar sighed, taking his chair.

“Forgive me.”

“No. Neither of us will sleep before we... settle... this....” Ondolemar yawned. “Stars know I wouldn't be able to.”

“Could I at least get a shirt?”

He'd given up his robe for the Breton, when she turned back into her normal human self. Transforming in the first place had had the unfortunate effect of destroying her clothes. So much was written about the dangers of the werewolf. Nobody ever bothered to mention the great inconvenience they suffered: the risk of accidental public indecency.

Ondolemar gave him a hard look, but started to cast something. Kynril felt a bundle of linen flop into the back of his head, and hurried to clothe himself. “I am deeply, truly regretful for that Shout....”

“So am I, justiciar. No, don't look at me like that. I've been hit harder.”

“This was all a mistake,” Kynril tried, desperate. Everything. Running along with the Breton's schemes. Letting them be cornered in the Talos shrine. Thinking to _save_ her from the false god while she feigned heresy to extend her time with the Thalmor. Blocking her hand from touching the axe fetish, only to brush it with his own. “I should have collected her and come straight back. This would never have happened.”

“We are finished discussing that matter. _That_ is forgiven, Kynril.”

“Then... then why...?”

But he knew what the answer was already.

“That little incident at the shrine, accident or otherwise, and its... effects... cannot be overlooked.”

“I renounce this false blessing,” Kynril said, and he felt his ears and eyes burn. “By the gods, I want none of it!”

Whether the gods heard his cry or not, he was not sure it mattered.

“Justiciar Kynril–”

Kynril bowed in his chair, lowered his gaze to the cold floor. “Please, my lord, my loyalty is to the Thalmor. To the Aldmeri Dominion. I have no intentions of heresy or treason....”

“You ought to know by now that your intention means little in the eyes of the Thalmor.”

There had to be something Ondolemar could do, Kynril's mind frantically protested, if he would make allowances for a human and bend the rules of Thalmor protocol. As he did so often. Then again, a human trapped in the affairs of Ondolemar's long-term enemies, even a petty heretic with no use, was different from a Thalmor justiciar supposedly blessed by the false god.

Kynril discarded the little dignity he had managed to cling to that night.

“I will submit to whatever punishment you deem fit, but... please....”

Ondolemar's chair creaked as he stood again. Kynril heard the tap of boots on the floor.... Then he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“I will not kill you,” said Ondolemar. “I have no desire to do so. Nor will I order your death. Please, sit up.”

And he did, slowly. But he avoided the commander's eyes, and looked instead upon the Dwemer stonework.

Yes. He was in Markarth. Markarth.

The Colovian lands were behind him.

“My wish is for you to remain here,” Ondolemar went on, “among my justiciars. I am required to inform the First Emissary of this accident, but I will do everything in my power to convince her to stay her hand. I will not take your life. Not now. Not for this.”

There were no words to express his relief. Or his gratitude. Or his sorrow. There were tears, of course.... There were always _tears_ , damn him...

“You will be confined to the barracks for a brief time. Understand that it is not a punishment, and you will have every other freedom you are normally granted.”

“As... as you command, sir....”

“And I may have something you'll be interested in.... Something we took from some heathen years ago. Something that will help you pass the hours.”

Before Kynril could ask, Ondolemar located a thick black tome on one of his shelves, then came back to hand it to him.

A little crest of the Empire was emblazoned on the cover.

“What is this?”

“Only the ravings of Weynon monks.”

His heart skipped another beat. No, he reminded himself. He was in _Markarth._

Kynril distracted himself with the first pages. “You... think I'm Dragonborn? But why would you...?”

“We both know that the Dragonborn legend surrounds Talos. As Thalmor, we must know, or how can we see the simplest examples of heresy before us? Nearly every Emperor of Cyrodiil, from the time of Alessia to the demise of Martin Septim, is said to have been Dragonborn. And Talos happens to... fit the Nordic part of the Dragonborn legend as well. Not many Emperors are known for Shouting.”

“Elenwen's going to kill me herself.”

“Don't lose hope yet,” Ondolemar said. “As you yourself have explained at length, the Cyrods, under the Alessian Order, were fond of erasing the Aldmeri history of Tamriel. It is unlikely that the Dragonborn began with them.”

“You think so?”

“Did you forget? I am an aldarch. And I remind you: Auri-El, too, is a Dragon.”

“And wasn't the covenant formed with Akatosh?” Kynril asked him. “The same covenant that supposedly involved defeating mer and–”

Ondolemar smiled. “If you're going to defer to Cyrod blasphemies against the Aedra, I shall have to keep you here another hour, and neither of us want to be awake that long.”

There was no interrupting an aldarch.

“Am I... free to retire?”

“You are. Go now, and rest.”

“Thank you, commander.”

–

He stood at the top of a great tower, high above the mountains and seas. The veil between the mortal world and Aetherius was thin.

The evil that was Lorkhan stood before him. An ancient dread, stark against the moons.

The priests had said that the hand of Auri-El was always on one's shoulder. But Auri-El was nowhere to be found.

–

A stifling heat and choking clouds of grit and dust.

Mighty Trinimac, the scarred champion of Auri-El, looked upon him with scorn.

What right did he have to call himself Dragonborn? He wouldn't last a day in the trials ahead of him. He could not even protect those below him.

–

The trees were gnarled and twisted. Mountain and canyon split the earth where the old ones had once battled. To think that anything could flourish in a place such as this.

Y'ffre watched and waited.

There was so much to be done, if only he would speak. The earth and sky were at his command. Why, then, was he afraid?

–

He was back home, in the small house.

Mother sat in her chair near the fire. She did not get cold, but she shivered and tried to wrap up better in her blanket.

Sometimes, mer got sick, Father told him. Sometimes mer were sick most of the time.

Father asked the Priests of Mara to help. But they said that there was not much they could do. Her sickness would always come back. But medicine would help her feel a little better.

Mother still liked to tell him the story. She would tell it as the sun set, if Father would tell the story about the Dawn and Men. Both stories were very important.

“When the world was still new, and Mer were still young, we had no magic. Even though the Aedra made us, we did not share their power.

“Y'ffre made the world just like Auri-El asked. He made the great mountains, the green and gold forests, the vast fields, the seas, the snow. He made day and night, to show us Auri-El's gift of Time. He shaped us to look like Auri-El himself. But Nirn was a scary place to live. Even though Y'ffre taught us to calm the trees and the wild creatures, Mer were always getting hurt.

“Phynaster gave us longer life. And though it was good, it was not enough to protect us from the big world.

“Trinimac showed us how to be brave and strong. But no matter how brave and strong we were, we still got hurt by the harsh cold.

“Syrabane tried to teach us her magic, so we could make fires and warm ourselves. But there was nothing to give us magicka.

“Then, Auri-El had an idea. He made a hole in the sky! And that is the sun.

“The sun is very special. It lets Auri-El see the world, even when he's in Aetherius. It shines with Auri-El's radiance, blessing us with warmth and magicka.

“The sun gives Mer different blessings. Some mer, like me, never get cold, no matter how cold it is. Some mer, like your father, can see in bright light, no matter how bright it is.

“Before Auri-El went to Aetherius, he made a promise. Whenever mortalkind faces a great peril, he will choose a mer a keep us all safe, and he will grant them a little bit of his power. These mer may become mighty warriors or mages. They may speak to the earth and skies, and Auri-El willing, they will heed them. They may see and understand Time as none of us ever will.

“These mer are Sun-Blessed. And as long as Auri-El's Light shines upon Nirn, a Sun-Blessed hero will return to the world again.”

  
  


END


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